


Misunderestimate (Make the Pie Higher Mix)

by extraonions



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: kamikazeremix, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mild Language, Sexual Content, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-21
Updated: 2010-05-21
Packaged: 2017-10-09 15:36:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extraonions/pseuds/extraonions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ruby said Hell made you forget.  But the one thing Dean was sure of back then, the only thing, was that even Hell couldn't make him lose how he felt about Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misunderestimate (Make the Pie Higher Mix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gretazreta (Greta)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greta/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Misunderestimate](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/881) by gretazreta (Greta). 



> Please see this story [](http:)at my livejournal for notes and credits.

## Misunderestimate (Make the Pie Higher Mix)

 

> _This. This thing they have. Sam and Dean, Dean and Sam. Tied up so tight in each other that they can neither of them break free, no matter what distance, no matter how hard they try, and Dean doesn't know why he tries so hard because all he wants, all he ever wanted, was Sam. He doesn't know how to want anything else. (from _Misunderestimate_, by __)_

  


* * *

  


There was no question in Dean's mind that Hell changed a man. He might be playing dumb about remembering all those years for Bobby's sake—Bobby's and Sam's—but truthfully he had known things would change.

Even Sam had changed, and it had only been four months for him. People change. It was only natural.

And it wasn't a bad thing, not really. Sam was stronger. More ruthless. More sure of himself as a hunter and so goddamn stubborn about always being right.

And didn't that feel like some kind of nostalgia? It was almost like all those years—so very many years, for Dean—ago, back when Dean had gone to Stanford expecting to see his gangly little brother and found a virtual stranger.

But that had been four years, and now, if Bobby and the newspaper Dean had found in that abandoned gas station were to be believed, it had been only four _months_ topside since Dean's ticket had been punched in a mess of gory blood and torn flesh. Dean hadn't expected the time difference somehow. Those first four months in Hell . . . it was so long ago. Four months stretched across the abyss, screaming out into nothingness, with only the echoes of his own pitiful cries to keep him company. Back then, Dean had thought that was all there was of Hell he would ever see.

That was dumbass stupid of him. The meathooks and solitude were a day in the fucking park compared to what came next.

And to imagine that Dean thought Sam was being a pain in the ass back then.

The man who had yet to lose his father, or even to lose his brother to a knife in the back, might have assumed things would get better eventually. But the Dean who had been to Hell knew better. These days, Dean only assumed things would get worse. 'Good things do happen', his lily white ass.

The thing was.

The one thing Dean hadn't expected to change was the way he _felt_ about Sam. He remembered what it was like to love Sam so completely. So desperately. Now, seeing Sam again in that ridiculous no-tell motel had just about made Dean's heart burst from happiness. He was angry, of course, because at the time he thought the dumbass had sold his own soul for Dean, even if it turned out not to be the case. Freakin' angels, who knew?

But the thing was.

Dean would have never expected to be reunited with Sam, full on chick flick reunion hug, and feel . . . nothing. Absolutely nothing sexual. Oh, Dean remembered the feelings. Even in Hell, he'd felt and remembered everything about Sam so deeply, so totally. It had been so much a part of their relationship—not just partners and brothers. Lovers.

Ruby said Hell made you forget. But the one thing Dean was sure of back then, the only thing, was that even Hell couldn't make him lose how he felt about Sam.

Dean loved his brother. He'd do just about anything for him. That hadn't changed. But somehow . . . somehow Dean was no longer _in love_ with his brother.

How the Hell was he supposed to feel about that?  


* * *

  


Sam was still waiting for something. Acknowledgement, maybe. Something to let him know that Dean still remembered, that he still gave a flying fuck about anything. About _them_.

Dean was never one for the caring and sharing. But now his brother was shuttered and caged away in ways that Sam wasn't used to. He looked at Sam differently now. Like Sam had somehow become a stranger. Oh, Sam still saw the affection in Dean's eyes when he woke from a stifled nightmare to take in Sam's presence; heard the tolerated amusement in Dean's voice when he humored Sam's admittedly obsessive compulsive tendencies, which had only gotten worse in the four months Dean was dead (gone. _Again_).

But things weren't the same.

Dean used to look at Sam like he was Dean's entire universe. For as long as Sam could remember, it had always been that way.

Sam doesn't remember it ever being like this between them before. Not even after those years away at school. Not even when Dean realized that Sam was serious about Jessica—Sam remembered very well what Dean looked like back then . . . carefully trying but failing to conceal the hurt. His resentment, even after poor Jess was dead (_gone_) and Sam was with Dean again.

Dean said he didn't remember anything about hell. But the one thing that hadn't changed? Sam could still tell when his brother was lying.

_I don't remember a thing from my time down under. I don't remember, Sam._

They'd been busy then, dealing with the cursed wishing well and a giant fucking suicidal teddy bear. When Sam told Dean he wanted to wish for Lilith's head on a platter; he was only partly lying. Dean wished for a sandwich, but his eyes told Sam he wanted to wish for something else entirely, and didn't dare.

After that, Sam hadn't taken no for an answer. Sam had been patient; more than patient. Dean could take his pique over finding Sam shacked up with Ruby (even if he hadn't _known_ it was Ruby) when Dean was fucking four months dead and shove it.

"I missed you, Dean, so fucking much," Sam muttered against his brother's jawline. "I hated what you did; I hated you for making that deal." He tugged at Dean's fly and made short work of stripping him from the waist down.

Dean grunted, not meeting Sam's eyes, and Sam roughly pushed Dean down onto the bed. Dean glared and muttered about Sam being a pushy little bitch, but stretched out with a pillow squashed up under his stomach and pushed his ass into the air. Sam laughed and fumbled his own jeans and briefs down, tore off his shirt, and toed out of his shoes before joining Dean. He gripped Dean's wrists together above his head, squeezing them down to the thin mattress.

It was fast and dirty (_God! It had been so damn long_), with only the barest of prep. Sam wanted to be in Dean right the fuck immediately, balls slapping against his cheeks.

Sam chanted Dean's name as he slammed into his brother with a steady, punishing rhythm.

It was like coming home, and Sam came with a series of shuddering jerks against Dean before he finally stilled, panting and sated. Sam pulled out with a groan and a soft wet sound before pulling Dean's body up next to him.

Dean pressed an absent kiss against Sam's sweaty forehead. Then he rolled over, shrugged out of Sam's loose embrace, and silently donned his jeans, boots, and jacket before stepping out the door.

It wasn't until Sam heard the screech of the Impala's tires peeling out of the parking lot that he began to think things through. The way Dean had seemed stiff and wooden while Sam thrust into his tight hole. Near silent except for the occasional grunt and the slick slip-slide of their bodies rubbing against each other. Enduring.

The way Dean's dick had stayed limp, even while Sam had been hammering away at his prostate and biting at the flesh at the back of Dean's neck, two things that were sure fire ways to get Dean hot and bothered. Dean had smacked Sam's questing hand away when he had reached to jerk his brother off and cupped his own hand around his dick.

Sam had thought nothing of it at the time, too caught up in the overwhelming sensations. But there was no telltale evidence among the sheets that Dean had shot his load. He hadn't gotten off.

He hadn't, Sam realized with growing unease, even gotten hard. Not at all.

My God, Sam thought. Dean remembered hell.

_I do remember everything that happened to me in the pit. Everything._

What if. What if Dean had been raped in hell?

_I won't lie anymore, but I'm not going to talk about it._

It was almost inconceivable that he hadn't been. And it explained . . . pretty much everything that had been off about Dean since his return.

But now Sam was putting things together. The way Dean automatically turned aside when Sam kissed him. His new body-shyness. His insistence on getting motel rooms with two beds, even when a king was available.

His reluctance to have sex, when they had done almost nothing but in those last few months before Dean's deal came due.

And just now, Sam had . . . . Jesus, as rough and frantic as he'd been, so desperate to claim Dean, it was a wonder his brother hadn't come apart. Sam cursed himself for a fool. It was like that time when Sam had broken Dean's wrist all over again.

Sam stood and stared thoughtfully at the rumpled bed. Feeling numb, Sam smoothed it out with ruthless military precision. Slowly. Methodically. With hospital corners.

Then he put on his clothes and shoes and left the motel room. He had to find something to kill. Preferably a demon. Lots of demons.

He wanted to send every single one of those bastards back to hell.  


* * *

  


The thing with Nick—with the siren, Dean corrected himself—he knew exactly how the damned thing worked its way under his skin. In the absence of _wanting_ Sam, Dean still loved his brother. Wanted Sam to _be_ his brother, and nothing else. No awkwardness between them while they fought and snarled and danced around the sex.

Sex that Dean still couldn't bring himself to want, but was loathe to hurt Sam by telling him so. He'd gotten better at pretending. Gotten good at jerking himself off to the thought of someone else—anyone else—even while Sam was touching him oh-so softly and murmuring words of endearment to Dean. Gentle, like he thought Dean would break if he moved too fast.

In his head, Dean remembered the way it had been for a while, after Jess and before Dad. Before the deal had driven Sam angry and desperate again, and Dean even more so. After they'd snarled and hurt each other and taken what they wanted because they didn't know any other way to be. To live.

He remembered the way they'd become lovers, instead of . . . fuck buddies. He remembered it, and while he thought of it with a certain amount of wistfulness; even wished to have it back, he couldn't feel it, not even when Sam tried to make things the same as they had been.

Dean wasn't sure what had changed, because after that one night when Sam had thrown Dean down and pounded into him, Sam had been . . . hesitant. Careful. These days, Dean often saw Sam watching him with an unreadable expression on his face. He thought it looked like pity.

Like he thought Dean was _weak_.

It was fucking annoying, was what it was.

Sometimes Dean took matters into his own hands. He pushed Sam up against the nearest wall and kissed him breathless. Sometimes he could even do it with his eyes open.

They didn't talk about it. Dean thought they had spent more time since he'd come back from Hell pointedly not talking about anything than ever they did before Hell.

He often crawled into bed with Sam and sucked him off. If Sam noticed Dean never got hard when Dean was blowing him, he never said anything. Every so often he straddled his brother's thighs and sank down on Sam's cock; rode him hard, until Sam keened and thrashed wildly beneath Dean.

If Sam noticed the way Dean sometimes slipped off into the bathroom to be quietly and efficiently sick after, he never said either.

He didn't say anything when Dean started leaning on the bottle, more and more. At first it was to get through the night (_the sex_) and the memories of Hell. Then, more and more often, it was to get through the day as well.

In return, Dean didn't say anything—or much of anything, really—when Sam went off. When he came back to whatever shithole motel they were staying at stinking of sulfur and sweat and sex, his eyes blown wide and his arms loose-limbed and oddly graceful.

Because.

Because, damnit.

Dean might not have _enjoyed_ the sex, but he wanted to for Sam's sake. He told himself that it didn't matter. He'd done things in Hell that were harder, messier, and this at least hurt no one and made Sam happy. Happier. Sam was his brother, even if Dean was somehow broken. He wasn't going to let Hell take this from him. He was strong. He could do this, for Sam.

But the siren. The siren made it all so much harder.

He would have killed Sam, and Sam would have killed him. It was just like the time with the fucking psycho ghost doctor. Ellicott. Neither of them possessed, just . . . unfettered. All of the issues between them unleashed to the harsh light of day. Except this time, Dean was the one standing over Sam, and thank God—or whatever, really—for Bobby. Because Dean hadn't been holding an unloaded gun, he'd been holding a goddamn fucking fire axe, and he'd have killed Sam in that moment. He'd have killed Sam because Sam loved him, too much and not enough.

After Bobby left, Sam wanted to talk about it. Dean didn't. Everything had already been said.

_Boo-hoo._   


* * *

  


When Castiel came clean, man, did he tell all. It was bad enough to know that Dean had set the fucking Apocalypse in motion.

But the rest of it—Castiel's offhand mention of the orders which saw Dean not only restored to his flesh but . . . fucking emotionally castrated so he couldn't respond to Sam anymore. His incestuous carnal desires, as the goddamned angel had put it. What. The. Fucking. Fuck?

"You're telling me that you did this to me?" he demanded. "You made me _stop loving Sam_?" He was trembling with surprised rage, more emotion than he had been able to muster even at the revelation that he had started the fucking Apocalypse from the depths of Hell.

"I stopped nothing, Dean. Merely restored the natural order of things. Had your lives been untouched by Azazel, do you truly believe you would have grown so . . . close to Sam? Loved, yes, as brothers should. But not beloved."

"What gave you—who gave you the goddamn right? Your fucking God? What the fuck happened to free will?" Dean gritted out from behind clenched teeth. It explained so much.

His emotions were washed clean of how he felt about Sam beyond being his brother, and the angels had done this to him. Castiel had done this.

Castiel reached out a distressed hand to Dean's shoulder, but Dean jerked away and hissed in pain as his wounds protested the sudden movement.

The bleeps from the heart monitor picked up frantic speed, and Dean took a deliberately calm breath and willed his heart to slow. He didn't want Castiel to find any excuse to terminate this conversation, and an inopportune check-in from some well-meaning nurse would certainly send the angel packing.

Castiel dropped his hand back to his lap. "Let me ask this, Dean," Castiel said. "As things now stand, without your . . . sexual attachment to Sam, would you still have sold your soul? Would you have endured the decades in Perdition that led you to this moment?"

Dean stilled. "I." He remembered with perfectly crystalline clarity the course of events which led Dean to swap spit with the Crossroads Bitch. The feel of Sam's body growing limp and cold beneath his hands.

_It's not even that bad._

He remembered the booze; the argument with Bobby.

_Then let it **end**!_

But Dean didn't feel it. Not the way he knew he had done, back then. Despair and grief, yes. Remembering it, he felt all the things that any brother felt from losing the last shred, the last precious piece of his family. He felt the same sense of failure.

But not the soul-crushing agony of loss that Dean knew had sent him to the crossroads that night, the sense of utter devastation from which there was no return.

"I don't know," he admitted.

Castiel's eyes were kind and his voice was gentle when he continued, "And does that tell you anything, Dean?"

Dean looked down. It did. God help him, but it did.

It told him _everything_.

The Dean who desired Sam, the Dean who loved Sam that way, in _all_ ways? That Dean would have known. He wouldn't have had to think; there would be no doubt. Even after decades in Hell, and screw the sixty-six seals and the fucking angels and the fate of the world.

So.

Sam thought Dean was weak, but it had been his weakness for his brother—his all-encompassing love—that made it possible for Lilith to break the seals, to plot to free Lucifer from his bonds. Dean had to question whether or not the angels had made him stronger, not weaker, when they removed that particular temptation from Dean's heart and mind and freshly minted body.

It didn't mean Dean didn't love his brother. He did. Dean would die for Sam in a heartbeat. He'd die with a smile on his face if it meant Sam would be kept safe and whole and happy. He would go back to Hell, would even betray an ally, as Uriel had so-rightly guessed back during that mess with Anna, just to keep Sam from pain. Anything for Sam.

Except.

The Dean who had been gripped tight and raised from Perdition, the Dean the angels had 'fixed' for good or ill . . . he would not—could not—sell his soul for Sam. Not back then. And never again.

"I don't love him anymore, Cas," Dean mumbled quietly. "Not the way I did."  


* * *

  


So. That was how it was now.

Sam stepped away from the wall he had been leaning against, right next to the slightly ajar door to Dean's hospital room. He felt numb.

As he walked away, Sam pulled out his cell phone. He ignored the pointed glare from an elderly nurse who motioned at the 'No Cell Phone' sign next to the intensive care unit.

"Ruby? I need you."

They used to be so close. Now they weren't. Dean died. Life sucked that way, and it was time for Sam to deal. Maybe it was time to stop living in the past.

Maybe it was time to let Dean go.  


* * *

  


The more he thought about it, the more angry Dean felt. Though he still couldn't recapture his desire for Sam as more than his brother, he knew something had been stolen from him, something that made Dean who he was.

"You had no right," Dean growled. Castiel looked at him steadily. Dean thought he could see a hint of sorrow, of apology, in the angel's eyes.

"Perhaps not. I can do nothing but follow my orders, Dean."

Dean nodded. He wasn't agreeing, just acknowledging Castiel's words. "Yeah? Maybe that's true, Castiel." Dean waited a beat and continued, "If you're a hammer."

He relished the slight look of pain which crossed Castiel's face, the not-quite reaction that might have been a flinch from a less controlled being. Never let it be said Dean had not learned from Alastair's . . . extremely thorough tutelage. A knife was a knife was a knife, no matter if the blade was formed from razor sharp metal or sharper words.

Castiel hesitated. "I'm sorry," he finally said. Dean closed his eyes and slumped back against the scratchy hospital pillow.

"I want my brother back, Cas," Dean said.

The angel cocked his head as he stood up from the plastic visitor's chair. "And what about your lover, Dean? If Sam wasn't your brother, would anything hold you back from engaging in sexual relations?"

For that, Dean had no answer.

Castiel nodded to himself and disappeared with the soft susurration of wings. Alone with his uneasy thoughts, Dean pressed the PCA button half a dozen times in quick succession and listened to the rhythmic sounds of the hospital monitors before finally drifting off.

He slept like the dead, morphine-laden and dreamless, and woke to six hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and another life.  


* * *

  


Dean Smith was a man with a carefully ordered, carefully controlled life. Eight-hour days and office politics fazed him not in the slightest. He was going somewhere, all the way to the top if the brass liked what they saw.

He ate healthy salads and drank vegan lattes and drove a sensible, fuel-efficient Prius. It was just another normal day at work as a director of marketing until he met Sam Wesson, the strangely intense guy from tech support.

The thing was.

Crazy as Wesson seemed, Dean couldn't help but feel as if he'd known Sam his whole life. Despite his denials to the contrary, he couldn't help but eye the guy speculatively from the other side of the elevator, thinking, _what if_ . . . ?

Dean somehow couldn't help checking out the heavily muscled chest stretched beneath the glaring yellow polo and the tight jeans-clad ass the same as Dean admired Mr. Adler's shapely secretary sashaying in front of him on the way to a board meeting.

Couldn't help but dream about Sam Wesson's smart mouth stretched wide around Dean's spurting cock while his giant hands pressed fingerprint bruises into Dean's bucking hips as real as a memory.  


* * *

  


When Dean Smith and Sam Wesson were no more, and Dean came back to himself, he had his answer.  


* * *

  



End file.
